I tip my head back to stare at the clear sky, grateful I haven’t run into anyone who may have overheard my heated exchange with Amy. If Ross finds out what nearly happened in that room, he’d have my hide. And rightly so.
Talk about digging a deeper hole for myself. What was I thinking? I briefly close my eyes. That’s the problem, right there. I wasn’t thinking, I was reacting. It has to stop.
Retrieving my disposable phone, I dial Graham’s number. The man answers on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Your daughter is safe,” I tell him, bypassing a greeting.
I hear the sharp intake of a breath. “What’s going on? Amy called me!”
“Yeah, she’s inventive and resourceful, I’ll give her that.”
“Is Amy all right?”
“She’s fine. She’ll be even better once you comply with our instructions.”
“I want to speak to her.”
I ignore the demand. “Did you contact the police?” I ask curtly, wanting to hear it from Graham’s own lips. Something is bothering me, something I’m sure is important, but frustratingly, my tired brain can’t pin it down.
“No, I didn’t.”
Not that I trust him in any way to tell the truth. I’ll have to take extra precautions tonight when I head to the safe house to retrieve the Land Rover.
“I’d like to speak to Amy,” Graham says again.
“I want to read your media statement first.”
After a pause, he says, “I have a rough draft.”
“Post it on this private chat group.” I rattle off a web address I set up. “I’ll get in touch once I receive it.”
I disconnect on Graham’s furious and frantic, “Wait!”
Pocketing the phone, I scrub a hand over my face, shutting my ears to the sound of a father desperate for the safety of his daughter. Considering Graham Hutchinson’s research work, the man doesn’t deserve my pity, but I wonder why the feeling is still there.
45
AMY
––––––––
Saturday, July 17
I hesitate in front of the door to my room. It’s unlocked. Did they forget to lock it? Is this a test?
I bite my lip. My palms are sweating and I smooth them over my shirt. I discovered in the cupboard a surprising selection of clothes and helped myself to denim shorts and a maroon T-shirt. I’m barefoot, my heels long gone.
I spent most of yesterday in bed, lethargy and leftover effects of the sedative cocooning me in a semi-awake, semi-dozing state. Lunch and dinner I didn’t eat were brought to me by a tall woman with striking green eyes framed by a ridiculous black mask. She didn’t speak much, other than to ask if I had everything I needed.
My life back, I wanted to shout, but that required energy and a force of will I didn’t currently possess. I turned my back on the masked woman, not bothering to answer her, and promptly fell asleep, escaping into dreams.
Nolene didn’t put in an appearance the whole of Friday, and Kane has stayed away from me since thealmost kiss. A moment I desperately want to forget. Knowing I can’t avoid him forever, I square my shoulders, open the door, and step out of the room.
The hallway is empty. I have no idea of the time, but it seems I’m not the only one awake. I can hear the sounds of someone in the kitchen. There’s the opening and closing of cabinet doors, the clanging of crockery. And what is that smell? Toast. My stomach gives a betraying rumble. I’m sohungry.
I follow the noise and the smell into an open-plan kitchen crowded with potted ferns, clay jars, and pots and pans hanging from a rustic pot rack in the ceiling.
